Jezebel in Hell
by Company Calls
Summary: I was precariously teetering on the edge of my sanity without realizing that I had actually slipped and fell.
1. Chapter 1

I don't think I'll ever forget the day you walked out of my life, temper blazing the color of your hair. Or rather hopped a train in hopes of trying to forget who you are… were? It's strange to think I may not even know the person you are anymore. It's been long enough for your wounds to heal; I'm still licking mine.

The hurt expression you left me with on the platform is burned behind my eyes. It haunts every moment. What are these moments anyhow? Considering I've been living in that singular moment for four years now. Would you even recognize if you saw me – right now?

I've been pushing papers at a publishing company in London for a while now. Just long enough to have a comfortable office, a comfortable flat, and a comfortably routine life in which to lose myself in. Wake up, go to work, come home, read, and sleep. Obviously I eat and shower and things, but I was just saying on a basic level.

I'm a vegetarian, love cats (have several…yeah), I go to the gym, and I have a mildly busy social life. A social life that consists of girls, Harry, and your brother. Your sodding brother. His stupid hair and stupid face and stupid eyes; forever a reminder of the person I loved most. He desperately wants to be that person. I desperately want to sever all ties, but I just can't bring myself to tear myself that far away from you.

It is only in my weakest darkest moments that I think about you. Mostly when I'm alone which has become more than frequent, especially at work. That's why I have the patience to deal with treacherous jezebels after my heart when all I want is some bloody affection. I don't seem to learn though, they're all the same. And they're muggles, all of them, each and every one. I stopped believing in magic the day you left – figuratively speaking. I knew I'd never feel the way I felt about you for anyone else ever.

Felt? Past tense? Have I moved on? Obviously not, I mean who the fuck soliloquies about something if they've moved past it? Maybe that's my problem. I don't want to move past you, the way you blurred instantly out of sight when your window passed me by. I watched the train until the steam dissipated in the distance.

I sat on a bench at the platform until the sky turned a darker shade of blue, the color your eyes were when I ran over to you. They were brimming with tears you dared not let fall, at least not in front of me. If you didn't even want to leave then why have you been gone so long? You gave me reasons that were not reasonable. Illogical. Why were you so afraid to love me?

I digress. I have a life. I've been living it falsely, but I've been living. I'm doing a lot better than expected. Over the last year I've been going out, meeting women; it's only been the last few months that I haven't been fantasizing about you when they touch me.

Only because it's a disappointment when they don't please me the way you used to.

No man or woman could ever make love to me with the burning intensity you did. You'd coax me in with a smirk that made nothing but dirty promises and wet knickers. You'd kiss me gently at first, tease me, and make me beg for more; only to surprise me with compliance to my pleas. Starting with my breasts, you were always so attentive. Kissing your way down my stomach (your lips making every nerve blaze), running your hands down my thighs (you always were one to enjoy the anticipation), you knew how to make me come over and over and still wanting more…

I always think of your fingers when I'm touching myself.

But it never was about the sex. It was just a very excellent treat that you're so gifted. People grieve losing lovers, but I mourn the loss of my best friend. You were my friend more than anything. Who was I supposed to go to when you left? Harry? Ha, and certainly not Ron. I was abandoned. You're the only person that I've really ever been close to.

Like I said though, I now live in a truly fantastical world where you do not exist. I am Hermione Granger: muggle, style editor, aspiring novelist, and the hottest bachelorette in London.

Which reminds me… I have a date tonight.

---

We rarely ever made it out on the dates we planned when we were living together. I can see you staring me up and down from the bed while I'm brushing my hair. You come up behind me, hands on my hips, and whisper the dirty things you wanted to do to me; kissing my neck and earlobe. All plans forgotten.

It was pointless to have brushed my hair.

But now you don't accost me from behind. I wait, but you never come. Begrudgingly I apply my make-up, in hopes this new girl doesn't notice that I don't sleep at night. Especially when I'm alone. Since being with you, the chronic snuggler, it's hard not to sleep with a pillow in my arms. I like to pretend I'm the big spoon and you're the little spoon… sigh.

I pour myself a drink before I begin the arduous task of picking out clothes. I take a sip of my cool glass of white zinfandel, which you hate. You were a red wine kind of gal; merlot, shiraz, pinot noir… full body reds. Sexy, bitter, dry… the things I feel when I think of you. That's probably why I don't touch the stuff, even though I only drank it with you.

Back in the mirror I can't help but notice the things you used to compliment me on. The things you used to lightly make fun of me for as well. All the while wishing you were watching me pull on my skirt and buttoning my sweater. I smile wryly to myself and slide on my flats. I look enchanting, any woman would want to do or be me tonight. Then why don't I feel as such? It's not a betrayal to you… is it? I'm assuming since I haven't heard from you, other than family gatherings, I think it's safe to say that I am not.

Those are always tough. Being that I don't especially have a family anymore, yours is mine. Thus I am forced to see you, thus nullifying any healing that could have happened. How are they to ever know what's bothering me, considering we never told them? They were as surprised as I was when you up and left.

---

She continues to talk on and on about her meaningless existence. She's a musician. Progressive. Underground. She has crazy idealistic hopes; breaking down genres while re-influencing them. An artist of sound. She really likes the sound of her own voice. An egotist flipping that all-wrong shaggy red hair over her shoulder.

I need another drink.

She's cute, other than the hair; trying to have the mysterious, miserable, artistic genius air. And she's too young for me to really talk to about politics. Uninformed. Passive because of apathy and boredom. She's mildly against government. I wonder what she'd do if she knew I worked for my own government at one point. Otherwise she's well read, well dressed, and has hands to die for. I have a thing.

Lucky for her, she's getting laid.

---

Back at her place I just start talking. You were always a good listener. She pours us each a Bacardi Coke. Not helping aid my lack of filter. I tell her things I haven't dare speak out loud in such a long time. I tell her how lonely I really am. How much I would like my work to get recognized. Also how I desperately need spontaneity and change in my mindless routine.

It's odd really, being in this girl's apartment. I saw her perform a couple of weeks ago, down at the pub. She noticed me in the crowd and approached me when her set was finished. I was on a date. She asked for my number and I gave it to her, never expecting her to call me. But here I am, sitting in a living room, reminiscent to Andy Warhol's: red couch, black chairs, glass coffee table, Marilyn Monroe on the walls… you get the idea.

By the time I'm done talking I realize she hasn't said a word, glasses emptied.

The next thing I know I'm in the bedroom. She's rolled a joint and lit it. We're sprawled on the bed, drunkenly telling stories, enjoying the company of the other. When did I get to this point in my life? When did Hermione Granger start smoking pot? When did I start dating girls five years younger than me?

I'm actually having a good time with this young libidinous creature. She has a kind face that glows when she smiles. Her hazel eyes are a nice break from the blue of the last girl. I take my hits and pass it back, all the while fawning over her. She wore a scarlet button up over a black crew tee and dark snug jeans. She has a confidence that you also have. Like you know you're the best lover this world has ever seen.

I feel oddly disconnected and continue telling her bits and pieces of my story.

I've known her for less then a night and already she knows more than most.

Nothing comparable to the things you know about me.

When it burned down to a roach she set it aside. The smell lingers heavily in the room; along with the haze, that also seems to be filling in the space between my frontal lobe and skull. She tells me I can do anything. I can be whomever and whatever I would like to be. She tells me the realization of my dreams depends on me and I need to pull myself out of this rut.

I throw myself at her. I'm on top of her, furiously unbuttoning her shirt and she's barely had time to react. Unlike some of the more recent ones, she can kiss. Sweet and gentle, but with such… intensity… I just can't help but want to see what she can do to me. Those beautiful hands of hers grab my wrists and finish up the task I started. It doesn't stop there, tearing off my sweater and pulling off my shirt. I return her favor and her crew neck lands on the beginnings of a pile on the floor.

She doesn't wear a bra, like you, and has beautiful breasts. They're round and full… and deliciously responsive. I feel the confines on my breasts slacken when she unclips my lacy black bra, sliding it off my shoulders. Reversing our positions, she settles her weight on me and grinds against me. I can hear myself responding, but not as much as I feel it. I can feel the arousal pooling between my hips, blood coursing with my heartbeat. I make her stop and unzip her jeans. She kicks them to the floor and pulls my skirt off.

I can tell she wants it so bad. Not as experienced as she wanted me to believe. Awkwardness never really bothered me. Especially since a good performance in spite of is a way to win a second date.

Oh yeah, her name is Elizabeth.

She likes to be called Liz or Lizzy.

I like to call her Elizabeth.


	2. Chapter 2

I always wake up before they do. She's sprawled face down, uncovered, for the entire world to see her naked glory. I have a feeling I'm going to go down in her record books. Her hair is covering her face; she still has marks on her back from my fingernails, and her cute little bum looks as though it might be cold. So I cover her. I didn't notice the tattoos on her last night. Neat.

I throw on her black tee and stumble to the kitchen. Passing through the small flat I see the remains of our evening. The three quarters empty bottle, two empty glasses and cans, and finally I'm in the kitchen. Lucky for me she has one of those nifty coffee makers that has an alarm and turns itself on. I find two coffee cups in the glass pane cupboards and pour one for each of us.

Us? You and I were an us. Guilt hits me squarely in the chest. Why though? We haven't been an us in so very long. I don't really see a problem, but it still feels like I've done something to hurt you.

That's when she walks in; dressed in a pair of boxers and a tank top. Her shoulder length hair is sticking out in every direction. She smiles and says good morning and takes a coffee from the counter. Smug. As she should be. Wouldn't you be?

We don't really know what to say to each other. She gets up and leaves, returning shortly with a plastic baggie and papers. She begins picking apart the plant. She has beautiful hands, like yours. Artist's hands. I know what hands like that are capable of: ecstasy, creation, destruction, and oh so many things.

I realize she's talking, licking the paper to seal its fate as the baking part of her waking. Typical. Nineteen and she thinks she's invincible, as though her habit is not more than a habit. It's her existence. You certainly are mine in one way or another.

But that's okay, because she's smiling at me in a way that makes me feel things I haven't felt in years.

She asks me if I want to come to her show tomorrow night, maybe hang out afterwards. Sure, why not. She offers me a hit, but I decline sipping my coffee. I tell her I'd love to see her play again. It's not a lie.

---

Back at home I step into the shower. Nearly time to be at work. Maybe no one will notice if I apparate into my office. It is private and no one really bothers to notice me. Besides, it isn't like I actually do any real editing – I knit. That's what magic is for. Remember when I used to edit your papers? Remember when I helped you study for your OWLs? Remember when you and I were young and new and excited about being in love?

Its okay, neither do I. That was nearly seven years ago.

I feed my darling children; yes I do mean my cats. And I apparate into my office. As foreseen, it went unnoticed. The manuscript I was reading… well glancing at every so often… yesterday is still sitting on my desk. I'm not exactly sure why I'm even bothering. Everyone will buy it; love it, even though it's a trite piece of shit.

Boy meets girl. Boy and girl fall in love. Uninvolved outside things tear said boy and girl opposite directions, but love still conquers all… in a way. I've seen this drabble a thousand times. Continuity in style doesn't matter. It's a blatant Romeo and Juliet rip off, but done very poorly and taken so far out of context it completely loses its meaning. It's disgusting.

But it happens all too often.

It reminds me of my own manuscript. Mine is more along the lines of; girl meets girl…etcetera. It's edgy and everyone loves the prospect of lesbians.

Only with our story we got torn apart from the inside.

I'm sorry that I wasn't ready to tell your parents. I'm sorry I left you with no one to talk to during your sixth year. You needed me and I left in pursuit of a destiny I had to help another friend conclude. I deserved the suffering you leaving me caused. Is causing. I can't even have a normal relationship. I can barely talk to another girl… or guy on rare occasions… whom I might be interested in without first considering what you would think. For some reason I have to keep reminding myself that you've probably moved on. You're a famous Quidditch star. Beauty, athleticism, brains, you've got it all, baby. Why should I feel bad about wanting to feel good?

Not that I would know, because we're not really on speaking terms.

Harry and Ron don't even know what you're up to. For all anyone knows you could be in a very serious relationship with a very pretty girl who so badly wants to scream from the mountain tops how much she loves you. I wanted to do that too. But I also wanted to protect you. They were hard enough times for anyone. The darkest I've encountered.

I digress. There are more prominent things to attend to. It's Friday and I'm going out. Maybe I shouldn't though. Elizabeth wants me to go out tomorrow. Her band is playing at this little venue and wanted to see me again. I want to watch her play. It could be a late night.

Then again, I want to go dancing. Moreover, I want a drink.

Sometimes I think I have a problem.

---

I'm not really an elitist or anything like that, but I must scoff at such a typical club scene. Sweaty bodies, pulsing lights, a bass so powerful it feels like it's trying to force one to succumb to the dance. Oh, but there are girls. Any girl you can dream up in some erotic fantasy backed with techno and psychedelic visuals. Sleazy, but it has music and a bar. And I can walk home later.

…and sometimes it's okay to be sleazy.

Watching the gyrating bodies, moving as a sea, I realize that I am not at all prepared to become one of the tremors in the mass. So I shout my order to the bartender. She's cute and smiles at me. She's blonde, petite, pierced eyebrow, nice smile; she's getting a big tip. She'll possibly get my number.

Several shots later we're talking and maybe flirting. She is telling me some ridiculous story, if only to sustain my attention long enough to keep me until her break. Who am I to argue? Why would I go dance with girls exactly the same as the others, when someone isn't trying too hard to get in my panties? It's a nice change. Not to say that she isn't trying, because she is. She's just being tactful. I like to think I'm tactful. But I like to think a lot of things about myself.

I always hoped it would be better than this. I took an easy job instead of sticking with the ministry. I ended up finishing school when you did. We stayed together, with a few rough patches. We moved in together. But it was a two bedroom, even though we slept in the same bed. You were gone a lot anyway. Games and practice and working out. And then things suddenly started to snowball.

I finally concede to the fact that this is going nowhere for me. And politely excuse myself. Standing up, I realize how drunk I am. Maybe it is time to become one of many contributors to this ocean of drug-addled louts. I think it's safe to say so.

I throw myself deep within its currents, getting lost in the flow. I'm shoved this way and that, remaining buoyant, not by any will of my own. When it almost feels like I'm drowning I feel hands on my hips, guiding me gently toward another body; my life raft. It's soft and warm and intimate, even with the hundred-plus people surrounding us. It's the bartender. A little surprised I smile at her forwardness.

I like persistence.

Even if it is pretty damn presumptuous of her.

I lean back against her and give in to the luscious feeling of being. Existing can be beautiful even when you're miserable. I find that existence is the only reason we know we're here, but to assure oneself that they aren't crazy; social, physical, and interpersonal interaction is necessary. I crave it. Devour it. And I am yet to be as satisfied as I was when you and I were 'us'.

What would you think of me? This carnal animalistic need to be with these women is fruitless, yet I try. Yet I continue to devour them, one by one, night by night, week by week. You would think me no better than they are. I'm not really sure I want to know what you think of me.

If you even think of me.

It's that thought that causes me to face this girl. She has sparkling blue eyes. Disappointing. I don't think I'll be able to go through with this. I close my eyes and feel panic rising. Remain aloof. Upon opening my eyes her smile melts any impediment I have about her. I pull her into a hedonistic kiss full of all the anger, desire, and passion I haven't allowed myself to feel in far too long. Why should I give a fuck what you think?

The next thing I know I've got my back pressed against one wall of a bathroom cubicle and my leg wrapped around her waist. I let her have her way with me. And for the first time in forever I feel so _amazing_. Her fingers work their magic as I'm shaking in her arms. I almost cry out, but she stifles me with her kiss bruised lips.

In this moment, I can't care what you'd think of me.

(A/N: So here's the deal everyone: I have two more chapters typed up and am currently mapping out the rest of it. If people want more I need some feedback, so I know what is working and what isn't working. –JezebelMalice-) 


	3. Chapter 3

I am woken at… sometime that is too early… by my mobile. Of course it's Elizabeth. So I answer it. She wants to know if I would like to go to lunch with her today. Lunch, what about breakfast? What time is it anyway? I tell her that I'll go if lunch if it's sometime in the afternoon. She seems pleased and I say goodbye. I actually check what time it is and toss my mobile on the floor. Chloe, my beautiful ginger darling, gives me a look of contempt. She's not happy with the telephone going off during her mid morning nap.

My head hurts. It was worth it though. I had a lovely time I imagine since I don't specifically remember coming home. But here I am, with a horrible splitting headache. Chloe climbs on top of me, kneading my stomach before she decides she's comfortable.

I remember when you used to drink a lot. It was before you were part of the starting line up for the Holyhead Harpies. Now I imagine you can drink anyone, even me, under the table. You used to beg me to make you coffee after a long night of hanging out with your brothers or the team. And I would, even though you left me at home. Now I kind of wish you were here to make me some bloody coffee.

Eventually I force myself up for the day, much to my ginger cat's dismay. I go about the usual home business: cleaning, doing laundry, talking with my three beautiful babies, because it's gloriously Saturday. They're happy mommy is home. After a while they become like children. They're just as mischievous and troublesome. But unlike children they are extremely self sufficient.

More than I can say for myself.

I mean, yes I can get along just fine. It just feels like there is so much missing from my life. Maybe I should actually have real children with a spouse that wants to love me and take care of me. Not to say that I can't take care of myself, but preferably I would like to be taken care of to a certain extent. Who doesn't want that?

I find Artemis and Sebastian curled on their chair in the living room. They're from the same litter, so I expect them to always be together. Besides, Chloe didn't take to kindly to them at first, so I wouldn't really expect much else. Keep in mind, Chloe's father _is_ Crookshanks.

Making coffee I hear my mobile go off again. I race to the bedroom, my babies confused by all the commotion. I may have missed another call from Elizabeth. She probably just wanted to tell me where we're meeting up.

It wasn't her. It isn't a number that I recognize. Nothing too terribly unusual, but I won't be calling it back. If it's important they'll leave a voicemail.

---

I spot her near the deli, smoking a cigarette. Artists honestly are certain they won't live past thirty. At the rate this one is going, she's making sure of it. I'm glad you're not like that. You were always so determined, destined for greatness. Elizabeth may be destined for greatness, but she'll never live long enough to enjoy it.

You were never concerned with burning out or fading away.

She looks me up and down when she finally notices me walking down the boulevard. I spent a lot of time picking out my clothes for the day. But I'm not really sure why. I don't need to impress this girl. I'm sure she's just happy to be seeing an older woman who is seemingly happy to be seeing her. At least these grungy jeans match her equally grungy attire.

She's donned another black crewneck over a white thermal, a torn to shreds faded pair of baggy jeans, and combat boots. Supposed pacifist and her damned boots. She looks hot none-the-less. She isn't nearly as girly as you are, but she still has a style reminiscent of yours.

She greets me with a grin and guides me inside after flicking her butt into the gutter. We talk a little. She's stoned out of her mind, jabbering about 'the scene' and music and what have you. I smile and nod and ask questions. It's nice. She's a very interesting person.

I don't know what I would say if she asked me to talk about myself.

No one has asked me about myself in a long time.

What if it's because I'm not all that interesting?

But then she does ask about me. Where did I grow up? When did I move to London? What did I want to be when I grew up? Is that still what I want? What was my favorite subject in school? Am I happy with the way things turned out? Completely taken off guard I answer her honestly.

I grew up in the suburbs. After secondary school I moved to the city. I wanted to work with animals. Like a veterinarian or something. But now I don't know what I want and I'm already twenty-four. I like my job, but it isn't challenging and I don't love it. My favorite school subject was… let's call it… Latin.

She seems happy with my answers and we order. She gets some sandwich with far too much meat on it and I order a salad. We chatter lightly about the plans for the rest of the evening until the food comes. We eat quietly. She already knew so much about me from the other night. Now she wants to hear about the little things.

And I still haven't had to mention you.

---

Her band is loud. And angry. Her heavy guitar riffs strike chords in me that make me want to move and dance and flail. I'm sweaty against people younger than her, but having a fantastic time. It's so raw and so pure it almost brings me to tears. Basic human emotion portrayed by a dissonant ensemble of psychedelic soldiers.

There was a pre-show get together with some of her friends. I tagged along. Or rather she insisted that I would have no choice in the matter. Also, I had no right to complain about any of it. The bar is smoky. I'm dehydrated. I'm absolutely exhausted. I'm also too sloshed to care. I've been getting free drinks all night.

It's nice being with the band.

It's a lot like being infamous from hanging out with Harry. Your brother and I were known by association. And oddly enough, you paved your own way. You were the original badass, going against what your mother and all of your brothers had to say. No one ever told you what to do.

These youth are just an apathetic version of who we were. We grew up in a time and place that was politically charged. We had to care. Our lives depended on it. Kids today are more concerned about when the next [insert band name here album is coming out. I mean, that was a concern of ours too, but we lived in darker times. Back when love and rock music didn't necessarily conquer all.

I digress. I am so sick of thinking about you and the past. I think I have a chance at something with this girl. She's beautiful, charismatic, and funny – albeit a bloody hippie – but I like her. She isn't ashamed of herself. She knows who she is and what she wants.

That is a lot more than I can say for you.

Did you ever figure out what you wanted from me?

---

She and I end up in her flat. My cats don't like new people, especially if they're drunken people. We opted to spend our evening in the pop-art palace. Again I find myself holding a joint for the second time this week, talking about how silly I feel about it. She thinks I'm cute, because I'm sheltered. I am, but only in this instance.

Passing it back I can feel it start to invade my skull, the world growing hazy. We keep talking and passing. I don't think we have even kissed since our arrival. When she hands it back she begins rolling another, because I'm hogging it. Just to obscure my thoughts further. I like this feeling. I have real connection with another person and somehow I feel like I'm connecting with myself for the first time in a long time. Perhaps it's the drugs. Perhaps it's the atmosphere.

Perhaps it's nothing.

Perhaps it's the way her hair is shining in the candlelight, but suddenly you derail my mind. Again. I keep nodding every so often to feign interest in a story about some trip of sorts. I think she's referring to a hallucinogenic experience.

It was something you said at the train station that has distracted me. You telling me that it was impossible for me to come outside myself and my comfort area. Things were boring. I was rarely up for anything new and different. You were sick of routine. Annoyed of how much time I spent with my nose in a book instead of trying to go out, maybe get involved in politics, anything. Then it dawns on me.

Maybe you thought I was boring.

Maybe you were cheating on me.

I cut her off with my tongue in her mouth. I am so not the same girl I was. I am sexy, impulsive, and spontaneous, not some sodding bookworm who waits around at home for her lover's grand return from bringing bacon. This girl doesn't find me boring in the least. And I actually like her and she likes me. I bet the wait for this was agonizing. She's surprised but is going with it, gathering me up in her arms, pulling me as close as possible. She wants me.

I am Hermione Granger. I am a witch in hiding, posing as style editor for London's best publishing company, (still) an aspiring novelist, and now lover of an up and coming rock star. She thinks I'm amazing and magical. She thinks I can still do all the things I always wanted to do. It isn't too far from the truth. What do you think of me now? You would think twice before abandoning me or fucking some other tart because you were bored. I had to explain to your family where you had run off to. Do you even know what that was like?

In her bedroom she puts on an album by Fiona Apple. It came out a few years ago. Yeah, this one: When the Pawn… I bought it when we broke up. Come-hither smoky voice mixed with heavy bass, great rhythm, and intriguing use of piano. Rather melancholy content (she's been through rough times too) but it's still danceable.

We dance provocatively together, attempting to have the other give in first. It's a dance of two lionesses; one waiting for the other to give in or pounce. It could go on for eternities and I would be content with her sensuous hands blazing paths up and down my body: touching, teasing, taunting, and never relenting.

Surprisingly she pounces first. She kisses me like I am the sustenance of life, but it isn't a violent need. It's gentle and probing and she slowly peels off my clothing, worshiping each centimeter of skin. I of course return the favor. How can I not? She holds me like a familiar lover, a delicate flower, something precious. It's nice to know I'm not just some random fuck.

For the first time in years someone is making love to me.

(A/n: Mmm… sexy. So let me know what you think, good or bad.


	4. Chapter 4

I didn't really believe that anything like this would every happen to me again. My beautiful nymph of a lover snores lightly while I'm registering this feeling of wholeness. There is a distinct feeling of being at ease, which I didn't know I was capable of. I never realized how much anxiety I carried with me until it was just suddenly gone. I was precariously teetering on the edge of my sanity without realizing that I had actually slipped and fell to an even lower cliff, preparing myself to jump.

Maybe I'm still there, but at least I have enough sense and awareness to at least step back and see the consequences of what a harsh landing at the bottom would entail. I could lose myself in thinking about what went wrong with us from now until the end of time.

I already wasted four years doing that.

I tracked you in the newspapers, asked your family about you countless times. But you are an elusive creature. If you want to disappear you have the capability of existing in a purely fantastical realm of your stardom. Just photos in magazines and newspapers. No interviews, no public appearances, nothing. You come briefly to family gatherings and just vanish. Maybe you meant it for the best and I took it a little too personally. Maybe that's how things should be.

Or maybe _you_ were afraid.

It's easy to delude yourself into thinking one way, when in reality it's a projected reaction to the way you feel about yourself. It was just simpler to say that it was me and my feelings of apprehension that drove you away. For that, I will never forgive you.

I curl into my lover's arms and wonder if I could let you go to make myself happy. I've just been biding my time, waiting for your triumphant return. Now I understand that you never intended on coming back to me. It was really over; even though you told me you loved me. You really wanted me to believe that in due time, the right time, when I sorted my own issues out, you would come back to me.

Perhaps this is where all my anger stems from. So you can go fuck yourself, because I've wasted enough of my time mourning what we had. And I have pushed away so many opportunities because I was waiting around for you.

My lover snuggles closer to me, wrapping her arms around me; she kisses the back of my neck. I feel myself smile and whisper a good morning.

Later I notice I've missed a call. No message. Not important.

---

Elizabeth is lovely. I like her – a lot. We have been spending a lot of our free time together: movies, art galleries, lunches, walks through the city, concerts of all sizes, and just hanging around one another's flat. She doesn't demand or really expect anything from me. She makes me feel like myself again. And she encourages me to keep writing – follow my dreams in any way I like really.

She promised never to hold me back.

She thinks I'm wonderful. She thinks I'm beautiful. She thinks I'm smart _and_ talented. It feels good to be appreciated… and not being hung over constantly.

She's an artist along with being a musician. Anything and everything you can imagine. She draws, paints, makes ceramics, sculpts, photographs… she also has done some installations. I had no idea how crazy the contemporary art world really is. They give her oodles of grant money for executing her artwork – most of it going to fund the project of course. Because of her 'status' in the art and music industries, she is an egotist. It isn't as annoying as it is adorable.

However, I do have my qualms. She has no interest in attending a university. She spends her money on the most useless things; she has more guitars than any normal person needs. She is high more often than not. And she tries to pay for everything. But I suppose she also has more money than she needs. Her band is quite successful.

I really like Elizabeth.

I trace my fingertips over her palm absently. Her hands are gorgeous. I love the way they hold me, caress me, and soothe me. I love her quirkiness. She's so overconfident, yet down to earth, and shy. And her boyish style doesn't overtake her wonderful femininity, androgyny suiting her personality.

Smiling, I look over at her and kiss the back of her hand.

She smiles back.

I am simply smitten with this girl.

…but I still beg her to color her hair. That god awful reddish auburn hair of hers doesn't suit her at all. Maybe it's because it's the same color as yours, but maybe it's because it really just doesn't look right. Black, brown, yellow, green… anything! I sigh and let her be, enjoying the way it feels to be snuggled on her scarlet sofa. Maybe it's because her hair clashes with her sofa?

I digress. Not important.

---

Slow sexy guitar riffs flood my ears as well as the cries of my quaking lover. She pulls my hair and digs her teeth into my shoulder. She's so close, I can feel it. It's in these moments that I realize the things I missed when I was alone – not daring let another person get too close to me. The last thing I ever wanted was to be hurt the way you hurt me, so why give anyone else the chance?

But this is truly wonderful and beautiful. I feel like a teenager again, moaning and giggling while Elizabeth kisses her way down my stomach. Pleasure tickles the back of my skull and my brain becomes hazy, the lingering high making it more sensational. She makes me feel so fucking good, I want to sob in her arms like a child; instead I'm begging her not to stop… she is my goddess… oh… she is everything I could have prayed for… and oh so much more… and she doesn't stop…

I snuggle against her chest when she crawls on top of me, the feeling is amazing. Kissing her I wonder if it could stay like this for a while. It's so nice to be held. Her eyes are soft and smiling. I feel myself smile back, burying my face into her neck. She whispers to me: lovely things, beautiful things, adorable things.

She tells me she loves me.

My stomach flutters in response. I think I love this girl.

I tell her that I love her too.

How long has she been waiting to say that? Her lips come crashing down on mine again. I want this. I need this. I deserve happiness. I think I could be with Elizabeth. She makes me happy, comfortable, and safe. Can I trust her not to break my heart?

---

We talked for hours that night, passing a bowl back and forth. I told her about you and the awful way you treated me. I told her of my past loneliness. She nodded and listened. I did the same for her. She is so cheeky and honest, revisiting memories of band break-ups. I was taken aback to find out that I'm the first person she's been serious with. It's a little daunting, but I think I'm okay with it; she is only the second person I've been serious with.

I'm kind of jealous of her. She is on the cusp of becoming something amazing. Only nineteen and she already is living out her dreams. She lives how she wants and doesn't care about what people think of her. She told me that she does care, but she won't give them the satisfaction of letting them know. She is an admirable young woman.

Not to say that I haven't had my accomplishments, but there could be so much more. I've just kept my life on hold. And for what?

You.

I want to be more like her. I want to tell the world to fuck off and let me be who I am. I want to live the way I see fit. I want to finally have some fucking closure with you. There are many things I need to get off my chest. Namely I want to tell you what I really think of you.

I think you're a fucking cunt.

---

Writer's block is an awful thing. I know where I want this story to go and yet I can't bring myself to write what needs to happen in order for it to move forward. It's not quite the climax, but the events leading up to… I just keep dragging it out.

I am startled by my mobile, my heart suddenly in my throat. Not a recognizable number, again. Maybe I should take this opportunity to call Elizabeth. She's sleeping, most likely. I just want to know where we're going tonight.

She likes to take me out. Honestly, I haven't ever been this pampered in my life. Not many women would treat a person like me as a princess, but for some reason she indulges the little girl in me. I feel myself grinning thinking of her.

Things are good, for the first time in a long time. I feel so safe. Comfortable. The only issue I have is leaving her warm bed every morning to come to work. Not that I'm even really working right now. Well, I am, but not for what I get paid to do. But now I'm not even writing. I just don't want things to be all sixes and sevens for her.

**(A/n: heh. Yeah so here it is, finally. But really Hermione worries too much. It's just a story.)**


End file.
